If dealing with the reality of my life at midpoint feels like this, I would like my delusions back right away.
Never in my wildest nightmares did I think I’d be doing this badly this late in life, or have lost so much that can’t be regained, or have such a bleak future to swallow.
I want to deny who I am, but I cannot.
This is Hell.
Be My Blog 
Where would you say it all went wrong?
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I’m often reminded of conversations with my aunts and uncles when I read your observations on middle life, with one exception. When they discuss their regrets and realizations, I never get that “too late” feeling from their tone. One of my uncles, in particular, seems always genuinely happy that he can finally acknowledge some things, and leave some other things behind, at an age when he’s equipped to handle those searing realities. Of course even he talks about wanting the years back, and sometimes the want seems overwhelming. But to paraphrase him, 40 more years without puberty or poverty to distract, it’s a long time.
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I am going through a similar process. What a friend suggests: a colon clense. Alright, send the psyllium husks, what the hay.
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I have nothing helpful to say. Just know that I’m sorry for what you’re going through and hope it gets better.
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I compensate by recklessly focusing on others, and measuring myself by how they do.
It doesn’t really make anything better or easier, but it provides me with the illusion that my life hasn’t been entirely without effect.
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Maybe achievement it not important.
Maybe a wonderful life really has nothing to do with what and everything to do with how. Attitude trumps accomplishment.
But I don’t know anything really, so how can I say…
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